How Dare He!
by silvermisery
Summary: It was utterly presumptous...but somehow Hermione didn't mind after all. Dramione OneShot.


Disclaimer: Waah…me want Harry Potter! (JK Rowling): No, you can't have him.

A/N: Not bad, I guess.

How dare he. It was the only thought running through her head as she stared at the figure standing with bent head. For a split second she did nothing but stare at him. He was thinner, now, gaunt, almost skeletal. His black robes were worn, and even torn in some places, but always neatly mended. Almost a smile twitched at her lips as she remembered how vain he had always been. Then the smile disappeared as the memories disappeared, replaced by hate. "How dare you." It was not a question, or an exclamation, but a statement. A statement of hate, of loathing. Her eyes hardened and she allowed herself a grimace of hate.

He just stood there, his icy eyes a void of grey expanse, as they always had been. But now they were no longer a façade so much as a total lack of emotion. Deadness. She shivered as she watched his platinum blond hair, always so sleek, just hang there, limp, as devoid of life as the rest of him. Roughly she shoved her pity away, glaring at him. "You dare—you—no respect, you couldn't," just as before, in their school days, she was reduced to sputtering incoherently, incapable of articulate speech by his mere presence. Only now it was worse, because what he had done was so much worse than a mere school prank. So much worse…

"You hate me." This, too, was not a question but a statement, something inevitably true. His voice was as dead as the rest of him. It was true, it was so true, more than he knew, but he swung his gaze on her, grey eyes meeting brown ones, and the acceptance of the fact was so matter-of-fact, without self-pity or contempt or answering hate, that she stammered, hesitated. "I—I—"

"It's all right," he said, with just the hint of wryness in his tone. "I hate me too." She could find nothing to say to that, and for a while they stared together at the white expanse of snow that was Harry Potter's grave.

"You know, I didn't think I could do it," he said in an almost conversational tone. "We went to school together, after all. It's remarkable what you can do when the life of someone you love hangs in the balance."

This was news to her, and she whipped her head around sharply, staring at him as if to determine with the sheer intensity of her gaze whether or not he was telling the truth. He wasn't looking at her though, but at the memorial that marked the grave. "He stared at me, like he couldn't believe what he was seeing. He looked like he'd seen a ghost, he was so white. You know, I remember exactly what he was wearing. One of those infamous Weasel sweaters—" and here she could have sworn a ghost of a smile flitted across his lips—"and a pair of those torture inventions you call jeans.

"Did he say anything? Do you remember?" the words were out of her mouth before she could stop herself, and she winced in impatience at her weakness.

"How could I forget?"

"What did he say? Tell me. _Tell me!_" Her voice was low, but it carried with it all the intensity of her sorrow for the past four years. Her hands curled into claws, her face jutted into his.

He muttered something, and she bent closer to hear. "Draco? Draco?" his voice was so low, so clear for a moment she heard Harry, saw Harry, pale, his green eyes disbelieving, staring up at the blond boy with a wand in either hand. His voice changed, and she knew he was mimicking himself four years ago. "Saying it twice won't negate it, Potter. This isn't English class." His face contorted as he whispered, "The war's over, Draco. Voldemort's dead. You don't have to do this—Dumbledore wouldn't have wanted—" his hands balled into fists, then he made a spasmodic gesture, and she knew what had happened after that.

"Why?" she asked, staring up at his face. "Why did you do it?"

"He swore he'd do it," and he was crying now, actually crying, tears running down his cheek, Draco Malfoy was crying, and she was standing there stupidly, little Miss Know-It-All had no idea what to do. "Father—he said he'd kill her, he'd kill Mother, and she was lying there, she was crying, and she was looking at me, I had to—I had to!"

"How did you do it?" she asked. "How did you make yourself?"

"It was easy—too easy," he whispered. "I just had to see—remember, everything he did to me, everything he ever did, and then—then, see Mother, dying, her blood pooling out and Father laughing—" he broke off, and she saw that he had stopped crying. "Dumbledore said I wasn't a killer…he was wrong."

"No," she whispered, and she surprised herself with the intensity of it. "No, Draco Malfoy, don't you dare say that! How dare you say that! Dumbledore was never wrong—he was never wrong! If he said you weren't a killer, then you aren't a killer."

"It's too late for that, Granger," he said, laughing. But it was a bitter laugh, a laugh devoid of any happiness, a laugh that was a parody of a laugh. "I killed Potter, and that's all there is to it."

"Malfoy—if there's anything I can do—if there's anything I could—"

"Sorry, Granger," he said. "Welcome to the real world. There's nothing you can do. My life is hell, and nothing's going to change that now."

"There has to be something," she insisted. "There's always something."

He studied her, carefully. "Maybe there is something, at that. If you don't mind—"

And with that he stepped forward and crushed his lips against hers. The kiss wasn't very long, not really. He didn't try to prolong it, or go beyond it, like the other men she had dated had done. It was the kiss of a desperate man, who knows that nothing he will do or can do will change his fate, the sweetness of his lips intermingling with the saltiness of his tears. Then it was over, and he stepped away, smiling slightly, the first real smile she had seen on him since he had disappeared.

And just like that, he was gone, with no trace of him left behind. Even his footprints were soon obscured by the flurry of snow that came descending down.

_How dare he. _The thought ran through her head. But somehow, Hermione Granger found that she didn't mind so much after all.


End file.
